“Sare,” he repeated wrathfully, “Ze Time is gage. Le Journal Anglais
(he accentuated this spitefully) is gage.”
He would have no further commerce with me after this; and, doubtlessly
thinking that an Englishman who couldn’t eat his beef under-done or
indeed at all, and preferred the Presse to the Times newspaper, was an
outcast and a renegade, abandoned me to my evil devices, and contented
himself with crying “Voila!” from the murky distance without coming
when I called. He even declined to attend to receive payment, and
handed me over for that purpose to a long French boy in a blouse, whose
feet had evidently not long been emancipated from the pastoral sabots,
whose hair was cropped close to his head (in the manner suggesting
county gaol at home, and ignorance of small toothcombs abroad), and who
had quite a flux of French words, and tried to persuade me to eat civet
de lièvre that was to be served up at half-past seven of the clock.
But I would have borne half a hundred disappointments similar to
this dinner for the sake of the black man. Legs and feet! he was a
character! He sat opposite to me, calm, contented, magnificent, proud.
He was as black as my boot, and as shiny. His woolly head, crisped
by our bounteous mother Nature, had unmistakeably received a recent
touch of the barber’s tongs. He was perfumed; he was oiled; he had
moustaches (as I live!) twisted out into long rats’-tails by means of
pommade Hongroise. He had a tip. He had a scarlet Turkish cap with a
long blue tassel. He had military stripes down his pantaloons. He had
patent leather boots. He had shirt-studs of large circumference, pins,
gold waistcoat-buttons, and a gorgeous watch-chain. I believe he had a
crimson under-waistcoat. He had the whitest of cambric handkerchiefs, a
ring on his forefinger, and a stick with an overpowering gold knob. He
was the wonderfullest nigger that the eye ever beheld.
He had a pretty little English wife--it is a fact, madam--with long
auburn ringlets, who it was plain to see was desperately in love
with, and desperately afraid of, him. It was marvellous to behold the
rapt, fond gaze with which she contemplated him as he leaned back in
his chair after dinner, and refreshed his glistening ivories with a
toothpick. Equally marvellous was the condescension with which he
permitted her to eat her dinner in his august presence, and suffered
her to tie round his neck a great emblazoned shawl like a flag.
Who could he have been? The father of the African twins; the Black
Malibran’s brother; Baron Pompey; Prince Mousalakatzic of the Orange
River; Prince Bobo; some other sable dignitary of the empire of Hayti;
or the renowned Soulouque himself, incognito? Yet, though affable
to his spouse, he was a fierce man to the waiter. The old blood
of Ashantee, the ancient lineage of Dahomey, could ill brook the
shortcomings of that cadaverous servitor. There was an item in the
reckoning that displeased him.
“Wass this sa?” he cried, in a terrible voice; “wass this, sa? Fesh
your mas’r, sa!”
The waiter cringed and fled, and I laughed.
“Good luck have thou with thine honour: ride on ----” honest black man;
but oh, human nature, human nature! I would not be your nigger for many
dollars. More rib-roasting should I receive, I am afraid, than ever
Uncle Tom suffered from fierce Legree.
I have not dined at His Lordship’s since--I would dine there any day
to be sure of the company of the black man--but I have more to say
about Beef.